


the fragile art of denial

by opensoulsurgery



Category: Pacific Rim
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Gen, Mental Illness, Pre-film, they talk about it in a roundabout vague way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opensoulsurgery/pseuds/opensoulsurgery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>newton geiszler lives in a world of ups and downs. it's hard not to notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fragile art of denial

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration for this sort of came from 'maybe this time' by ok go. also, i headcanon that newton smokes when he's agitated/upset/going through an episode and hermann is always the one to have a cigarette handy. this is how that started.
> 
> (there's also an iasip reference in there somewhere. props if you can spot it.)

His concentration was always the first thing to go. Slowly, but surely, it began to dwindle until he couldn’t form a coherent thought about whatever it was he was trying to do. Then, all at once, it was a downward spiral into insomnia and wishing he had the energy enough to at least pick up a scalpel and prod at  _something_.

So, most of the time during his lows were spent with his hand wrapped around a coffee mug, eyes staring vacantly passed whatever it was he was supposed to be working on. The coffee did little to help. Mostly, it left him feeling jittery and anxious, and yet he continued to pour mug after mug.

How he managed to drag himself out of bed that morning he still wasn’t too clear on, but the last thing he was going to do was question it. The bags under his eyes felt as heavy as his head where a dull throb was making it ache but he made it to the lab, still wearing yesterdays shirt and the sweatpants he wore to bed the previous night. Hermann was scribbling furiously at his chalkboard, seemingly oblivious to Newt’s entrance, but Newt didn’t bother to say anything. He sipped his coffee, flinched a little when it burnt his tongue, and stared bleakly at his desk where a Kaiju parasite lay dead on its back from where he had been dissecting it the day before. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he padded over to his desk, put down the coffee cup next to the parasite. 

The sound of the mug hitting the metal of the desk alerted Hermann who turned around, chalk in hand. “It’s about time you showed—- Oh." Four years of working together meant each scientist was pretty familiar with the other’s mannerisms, and Hermann was well versed in Newt’s mood shifts. 

Someone who was not well-versed in Newton’s mood shifts: the psych team.

Evading meetings with psychologists and dodging questions from superiors and “accidentally” forgetting about certain evaluations were tricky, but Newton was skilled in the art of excuses. There was always something, something, something else that was much more important than having someone poke around his head and ask questions that put him on edge and left him with a prescription that would leave him feeling fuzzier than he would without. 

And honestly, he would say to Pentecost, waving a hand full of Kaiju guts haphazardly, there’s nothing wrong with me anyway. Then he’d turn, scuttle back to his half of the lab, ignoring the eyes of his superior boring into the back of his skull. 

He’d said this so many times he was beginning to believe it. 

He’d become practiced in the art of denial, too. Deny, deny, deny. Maybe if you denied something long enough it wasn’t true anymore. It wasn’t logical thinking, but for his particular set of circumstances he wasn’t going to try and dispute it. 

But there was a problem now. There was someone who could see past the excuses, past the denial, past the look on his face that screamed _I’m totally fine. Oh, also I’ve had four cups of coffee and it’s not even ten o’clock yet._

Dr. Geiszler and Dr. Gottlieb had gotten to know each other fairly well over the past four years - even if they hadn’t particularly wanted to. It had become easy to pick up on the mannerism, the idiosyncrasies of the other. Hermann was very familiar with the way Newton would tap his foot to the beat of the music playing in his head while he worked, and Newton was familiar with how Hermann would spin sticks of chalk between his fingers while he thought through an equation. 

They had never spoken about the ... problem, no. Not really. Even if they were capable of having a normal conversation with each other, Newton was never fond of talking about how sometimes he wasn’t all that capable of making an attempt to be a functioning human being and how at other times he felt like he could take on the world with just two hours of sleep. 

Newton ignored the other man, felt the thud, thud, thudding in his head and fought against the urge to pinch his eyes shut and scream. But there was a hole in his throat and any energy he may have had to even just speak seemed to flow outwards. There was a silence hanging heavy in the lab, and Newt glanced over his shoulder, noted that Hermann was standing on the threshold of where they had split the lab. “Are you ... well?” 

Newt pushed his glasses up his forehead, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand, and spun around in his chair. “I am. Sort of,” he lied. He glanced up and past Hermann. “Are you going to finish your coffee? I could use another and I don’t really feel like makin--”  

“Newton!” Hermann’s lips were pulled in a thin line, frustration marking the lines in his face. “You cannot possibly keep avoiding this.” Newt blinked, was taken aback by the swiftness with which Hermann went from sounding mildly concerned to like he was scolding a five year old. He swallowed thickly, tried to find his own words and another excuse.

Excuses, excuses, excuses, that’s what it all boiled down too. He was good with excuses.  

But instead, all he said was, “I can keep up avoiding this just fine, thanks.” He spun his chair around - or at least attempted to - but Hermann caught it, spun him back around, and on any other day Newt might have stood up and punched him for being annoyingly pushy. There was a burning in his chest now; it wanted out but it was weighed down by a fatigue that hadn’t subsided for a week. “I’m pretty good at avoiding it, you know. This isn’t the first time you’ve seen me like this,” he said, speaking before Hermann had a chance to open his mouth. He hated speaking the truth, hated how the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He hated how weak he sounded in front of the other man the most. 

There was a tight sigh from Hermann, the sound of grinding teeth from Newton. Hermann adjusted his glasses. “I’ve known you for four years, Newton.” he said.

“And I’ve been telling you to call me Newt for all four.” He made an attempt at a laugh - but it sounded pitiful to even himself. 

“Can you stop with the jokes for once? I know you are not fond of discussing your--... _the_ issue, but you need to be honest with yourself. You cannot expect to live your life tiptoeing around it like it’s not a problem.”

This time Newton’s laugh was loud and it was laced with a bitterness that most people would be surprised to hear come past his lips. “Yes, I can.” He found it in himself to stand, tried to face Hermann with a determination that he knew just did not exist. “We’re not friends here, Hermann. We work in the same lab. This is a job. This is a ... A professional relationship. Stop prodding around in my personal life. I don’t make a point of sticking in my nose in every goddamn aspect of yours.”

There was a silence. 

“I’ve been lying to the psychologists for you for four years.” 

The silence extended. Hermann continued. “I don’t know how you manage to avoid the evaluations, how Pentecost lets you get away with it, but they ask me about you. I tell them you’re fine. But I’ve spent a lot of time around you, Newton. The shifts ... are not difficult to spot.” For a moment, Hermann seemed at a loss of words. It’s a strange look on him, Newt thought. “This ... What you have...”

“I don’t _have_ anything,” he shouted, surprised at his own outbreak - then shrunk back on himself when the desperation in his own voice hit him, sat back down. He cradled his head in his hands, stared down at his shoes. “I don’t have anything,” he repeated again. The thudding in his head picked up - it sounded like drums beating, thunder crashing, rough waves hitting the levee wall. Two and a half days - maybe three now - since this headache had nestled itself comfortably in the back of his skull. Letting out a shaky breath, he shook his head, made a move to get up and leave the lab when there was a hand on his shoulder. Newt blinked, looked up at Hermann who looked surprised at what he was doing too.

“Newton. I may not entirely understand, but it troubles me to see you like this.” Newt snorted, shrugged off the hand on his shoulder. 

“Then understand that you should leave me alone.” His whole body ached, he wanted to go back to sleep, wanted another coffee, wanted have enough energy to do _something, anything_. He slumped back down in his chair. 

When Hermann didn’t make a move to leave, Newt looked up, opened his mouth with a smart retort on his lips when Hermann spoke, “If you need anything, do not hesitate to let me know.” With that, he turned, but he didn’t get very far when Newt cleared his throat.

“I could use a pack of cigarettes.” 

Hermann looked unamused, but turned around all the same. “Will they help?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Sort of. ...Probably not, but I could really use one.”  

Hermann’s lips pressed into a thin line once more - then nodded. “Come on. Get up, then. I don’t have all day, you know.” 


End file.
